Chapter 6
Ever
HOME. I’VE HEARD IT’S WHERE your heart is.
I don’t know if that’s true, but if it is, I suppose it’s good my heart is a battered, broken mess.
If it were whole, I couldn’t leave a piece of it in The Wells, where I grew up with my mother, or lay a different fragment to rest with my kindred in King’s Keep.
Then there’s this place, the hard-won home of the Syphons.
This cruel, desolate wasteland, with all its difficulties and obstacles.
It isn’t the kind of place anyone wants to call home, and yet it claims quite a few shards of my shattered existence.
I stare at the hidden pathway before me and easily conjure an image of the arid valley I know exists just beyond.
It’s protected by the three largest sand dunes the northwest part of The Scorch has to offer, and hidden by magic so ancient it only exists in carefully guarded stories passed down to a select few.
I’ve spent months imagining this moment, dreaming of the day I would be right here, picking my way down the path between dunes until I’m on the precipice of the place jokingly dubbed The Oven. So why, after everything I’ve done to get here, am I hesitating?
The pallet of supplies that’s once again floating behind me whirrs noisily as I stand and stare. The magi-tech isn’t faring well against the sand and sun, and the contraption whines, almost as though it’s begging for a break or pleading with me to do something?.?.?. anything but just sit here.
Sweat spills down my body in a relentless torrent, and my skin is stiff from the continuous battle of burning and healing.
The suit Nixy gave me is dead, and sadly it will stay that way until I can charge it—something I don’t have the equipment for out here.
I peeled the top half down and tied it around my waist, leaving me in armored pants, a tank top, and the sky-blue scarf I’ve wrapped around my head and shoulders to help fight off the elements and conserve my magic.
I need to move. I can’t just stand here like some blinking beacon waiting to be spotted by a patrol, and yet I can’t take those last few steps. Not yet, not until it stops feeling?.?.?. wrong.
Ren isn’t here.
My Flight isn’t here.
He isn’t here.
The home I’m walking into isn’t the home I left, and for the first time since I escaped Wistan and his Tainted, I feel that on a visceral level.
I try to focus on the positive, to think about my sister and the others safe inside the wards.
Yet as much as I want to see Enslee, to run into her arms and find solace in her presence, she’s the reason that Boshle, Yaira, Pier, Taylin, and Kamay are missing, and the fury I feel over that fact is overriding the relief and triumph I should be experiencing right now.
The others will be happy I’m back, I know that, and there’s so much to do as we all prepare for phase two. But we have a traitor in our midst, possibly more than one, and I have no idea who it could be. There’s zero chance I’ll be able to let my guard down until we find them, maybe not even then.
That’s the thing about trust—you offer it blindly, never thinking it will be the blade used to carve out your heart when you least expect it. Only now I know the betrayal is coming, and the anticipation of it feels like a slow slide into madness.
I hold a deep, fortifying breath in my lungs for three seconds and then slowly blow it out.
It’s time.
Before I can second-guess myself or come up with any other reasons to stall, I start down the path.
The shade from the surrounding dunes drops the temperature a couple of degrees, but going from soul-melting to blood-baking isn’t much of a relief.
The pallet of supplies following behind me makes a spluttering noise, like it’s asking me to wait up, but I press on despite the way the plinth is lagging.
It’s made it this far; if it dies now, the others will just have to carry everything in.
I reach the magical wards faster than I thought my tired legs would carry me.
The hair on my arms lifts in warning as a magic-charged static crawls over me.
I shake out the sensation from my hands and pluck a dagger from my thigh.
I run the sharp steel across my palm and wait a few seconds for blood to pool in the shallow wound.
Stepping closer to the protective barrier, I press my hand against the wards no one can see aside from those of us who were there when they were created.
My fingers tingle and little sparks dance around the outline of my palm. The cut starts to close, and then the hard surface of the wards softens. I fill my lungs with one more bolstering breath, and then I push through the magical shield.
The cold that overwhelms me is a shock to my system.
It’s like falling into a frozen lake. My body flash freezes and my lungs seize and recoil from the air’s glacial touch.
The sweat on my skin becomes ice, and just when I start questioning whether I can take another second of the wards’ frigid embrace, I step out on the other side of the protections.
Sweltering heat and sand greet me once again, and the mirage of an empty valley I saw on the other side of the wards disappears to reveal the Syphon camp?.?.?. and three crackling shock spears pointed directly at me.
“Declare yourself or fry,” a deep voice barks in warning, and it shouldn’t be the thing that fissures through my defenses to break the lock on all the emotions I’ve been keeping at bay?.?.?. but it is.
Tears well in my eyes, and my throat constricts as I take in the three guards and the expanse of sand, metal, and canvas behind them.
I open my mouth to say something, but the plinth of supplies I thought I’d abandoned suddenly smashes into the wards, and in response, the protective magic sends out a warning pulse.
The defensive measure sends me careening into the sand, and I land hard with a pained groan.
“Welcome home,” I wheeze to myself, deciding to just lie where I’ve landed and let the pallet take the win.
Clearly, I learned nothing from the last time that damn thing tried to take me out.
I let loose a defeated sigh and acknowledge the not-so-subtle metaphor that layers perfectly with my current situation.
I’m still firmly on the side of fuck fate , but I’m not dumb enough to ignore admonitions from the universe.
Proceed with caution, and watch your fucking back.
Got it, stars, reading you loud and clear.
Bright blue fabric covers my face, and I tug the scarf down so I can see while I start to get up.
For reasons I refuse to acknowledge, the sky-blue fabric caught my eye at the storehouse when I was there buying supplies.
It hits me how stupid I was not to take it off before I crossed through the wards.
Of course Gable, Imogen, and Sofann were on high alert.
My body protests uproariously when I finally manage to get back on my feet.
I start to unravel the azure fabric from my head and shoulders, but before I can remove more than a single layer, a shock spear sizzles menacingly inches from my face.
I trace the electrical current with my eyes and then follow the shaft of the weapon to the Syphon wielding it.
Gable has cut his hair since the last time I saw him.
It used to be long, but now it’s sheared close to his head.
It looks darker now that it’s short. So does his hazel gaze, but that’s probably because he’s glaring at me right now.
Sand clings to one side of his tan face, speckling his cheek and sharp jaw.
Looks like I wasn’t the only one caught off guard by the wards’ defenses.
“I asked you a question,” Gable growls a final warning. “Who are you?”
I know I shouldn’t be offended—this is protocol and it exists because we’re all fluent in betrayal—but the towering Syphon needs to get his taser stick out of my face.
He knows damn well I wouldn’t be inside these wards unless I belonged here, and I’ve had about enough of big brutes bossing me around.
Quicker than Gable expects, I wrap the end of my scarf around his weapon and yank it to the side.
I spin until the end of the spear is no longer threatening me and bring the shaft down against my knee.
It breaks in two with a loud crack, and in less time than it takes for Gable to grunt in shock, I hit him in the stomach with one end and then toss both halves at the other two guards, who start to charge us.
“You know I’m one of you,” I rasp, but of course my voice sounds nothing like it should, thanks to the dry desert air and disuse.
Gable coughs and holds his stomach, and Imogen and Sofann, thankfully, keep their distance.
I rush to unwrap the rest of the scarf before anyone else can press their luck.
The azure fabric falls away just as Gable straightens, and he reels back.
His wide hazel eyes search my face, like he’s afraid to hope that what he’s seeing is real.
I’ve been there. I went no contact with hope a long time ago, convinced the emotion only led to devastation.
But for the first time in a long time, I find myself reaching for it?.
.?. and I desperately want it to reach back.
“Ever?” he gasps, my name both a startled exclamation and a hopeful demand.
My eyes start to sting again as I nod, and the next thing I know, I’m wrapped up in Gable’s arms and he’s twirling me in a circle while hooting with excitement.
“Is it really you?” he asks as he spins me again and again.
“New and improved,” I croak, struggling to breathe against his tight hold. I slap his bicep twice, indicating that I’m tapping out, and with a booming laugh that reverberates through me, he sets me back on my feet.
Dizziness claims my focus and Gable barks something at Sofann and Imogen. Sofann takes off in the direction of the stack of shipping containers we assembled and layered until it resembled something all of us could live in.
With a stuttered sob, Imogen drops her spear and rushes me.
I barely have time to brace for the incoming tackle before we’re both flailing back into the sand.
It explodes all around us, barely softening the fall that’s taken us both by surprise.
It dawns on me that I’ve lost more muscle than I thought, because Imogen is the smallest of the Syphons and has never been able to take me down like this before.
“Ever, Ever. Ever?.?.?.” she repeats, like she thinks I’ll disappear if she stops chanting my name.
My laugh is strangled by Imogen’s crushing embrace and by the tears that are steadily dripping down my face despite my efforts to stanch them.
Relief finally floods me, and with it go the barricades that’ve been holding back my emotions.
Iker will lecture me about being the last of my line and an example to the others if he catches me bawling, but now that the tears have started, I don’t know how to make them stop.
Maybe I’ve been holding on to too much for too long, or maybe Wistan carved away my control when he carved away other parts of me. Whatever the reason, I have no choice but to hold on for dear life and ride out the crashing wave.
Imogen is unceremoniously plucked off of me, and Craith is suddenly there offering me a hand up. I want to take it, I try to, but my tank is officially empty and I’ve got nothing left to give. Concern mars his dark features, and the exhilaration in his black gaze abruptly dims.
“We need water,” he frantically shouts, and then he drops down into the sand next to me and takes my hand in his. “You’re okay, Scioness. You’ve made it. We’ve got you.”
“Get her up,” someone commands. I think it’s Elias, but I don’t have the energy to turn my head and look.
Without warning, someone lifts me off the ground and tries to set me back on my feet.
My entire body feels like one giant muscle cramp, and I’m only able to stand because whoever’s behind me is supporting all of my weight.
The sound around me goes in and out, and my vision blurs before clearing.
People’s mouths are moving, and I know they’re asking me questions, or maybe offering reassurances, but my brain is mush and I can’t track anything that’s happening for more than a few seconds.
The last few days of trekking all over The Scorch, setting up fake trails, hiking here in the unforgiving heat from where I ditched the sand cruiser, and the lack of consistent sleep or food are finally taking me to task.
I try to rebound, try to get it together, knowing the others can’t see me like this. There’s too much to do, too much at stake, but the problem is, I’ve spent the last hundred hours rallying and pushing, and I’ve officially hit my limit.
“Did you find Vero and the others?” someone asks—Daria, I’m pretty sure, judging by the blurry honey-blond hair.
That’s next on the list , I try to answer, but I can tell my lips don’t move. I try again, but a booming voice interrupts my efforts and orders everyone to “MOVE!”
Whoever is holding me up doesn’t listen, thank fuck, or I’d crumble into a boneless pile of sand-crusted, sweaty Syphon right now.
I catch sight of my sister’s Flight, the group of Syphons and wyverns storming toward me.
They part and then suddenly she’s there?.
.?. the Queen of the Syphons?.?.?. Enslee?. .?. my twin.
One look at my sister, and some of the broken pieces inside of me fit themselves back together. Other pieces, the jagged ones I’ve been holding on to with a shaking, bloodstained grip, finally fall from my grasp and shatter completely.
Enslee races toward me. Her features collapse in relief and pain, and I try to go to her, needing to embrace my sister and soften the razor-sharp edges that are trying to saw us apart.
I only manage two steps before the world tilts.
I fight it, I demand my senses hold out a little longer, but I’ve lost all command of my faculties.
A black nothingness quickly encroaches and the only thing I can focus on before I pass out is?. .?. where is Enslee’s dragon mark?